


oh my god they will be roommates

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, and even more dumbass, dumbasses to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: "There's something I was thinking about.”“What, dear?” Aziraphale took another sip of apple cider, still cool as he wanted it to be.“Why are we planning on moving in together?”Aziraphale blinked. He asked, for maybe the thousandth time, why God had been so cruel to make him fall in love with a demon. The dumbest of all Hell, among other things.Crowley slithers over the bookshop. Cake, love confessions and general dumbassery.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 97





	oh my god they will be roommates

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of fluff nonsense. Kindly beta-ed by [strangely_kingless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangely_kingless/pseuds/strangely_kingless) <3  
> (you can find me on [tumblr](http://bebrave-andbekind.tumblr.com)!)

“I never baked anything in my life,” said Crowley, pacing around the apartment. It hadn't been so sunny in London since eighty years ago. He rejoiced in the thought of the chaos the children forced out of school were bringing onto their houses. “Y'know, with not eating much and all.”

“Oh!”, said Aziraphale, twirling his finger around the telephone cord. “You should try now that you have so much time on your hands.”

“I don't even know if I have an oven,” said Crowley, looking at the perfectly functioning oven he had bought two months earlier solely because he thought it would have looked good in his kitchen. It indeed did.

“Oh, that's unfortunate,” said Aziraphale, mourning the loss of all those potential cakes and pastries and loaves of bread, “baking is a wonderful stress relief.”

“Well, you know,” started Crowley, chewing lightly on his lip and deeply missing the telephone cord. He flopped on the bed and closed his eyes, deciding against himself to try his luck one more time. “There's a lot of humans out in the streets. Reckless, selfish humans.”

“Really?”, replied Aziraphale with just the tiniest bit of amusement, because he could sense where the second part of that conversation was heading to.

“Yeah. I was thinking, maybe seeing a giant snake slithering around would teach them a lesson. Stay inside lest you want to meet the Serpent of Eden. Throwing in a bit of hissing for good measure.”

“But they wouldn't know you're a VIS.”

“I'm a what?”

“A Very Important Snake.”

“Well,” he bit down an amused laugh just because he had a plan to carry out, “they would be scared shitless anyway and scurrying home.”

“Oh, well,” said Aziraphale looking very serious, brow knitted and stern line of the lips, “they're being irresponsible and awfully disrespectful. Oh, you should show our support for the NHS.”

“How? I don't think shouting would work.”

“If you're going to be a giant snake there should be enough space on your body to write something.”

“Something like Respect the NHS?”

“Yes, and maybe add something personal. Like, Respect the NHS, stay the fuck home.”

“Respect the NHS, stay the fuck home or I'll bite you,” Crowley added, amused.

“Yes, I think that should work.” Aziraphale, too, was amused by the game. He had missed their little games so much. “It's for their own good. How do you feel about a red velvet cake?”

“What's that?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll like it, there's cream cheese inside.”

“Sounds good. Be there in an hour,” Crowley said while his mind was already racing about the best outfit to put together to look at his best after almost a month of slacking around his apartment in pyjamas. Very stylish pyjamas, but still pyjamas.

“See you later, my dear,” said Aziraphale, giving a phantom kiss on the phone. He felt heat creeping up his neck and straightened his bow-tie which wasn't crooked in the slightest and went into the kitchen, humming something nonsensical under his breath.

Exactly after an hour, Crowley was on his doorstep holding a bottle of – well, it wasn't wine but apple cider.

“Nowhere to buy a decent wine, so I popped into a Waitrose and grabbed something else. There was some shouting but somehow someone else, say, a supernatural creature -”

“A fairy, I suppose. Lots of fairies these days.”

“Yeah, a fairy shut off their voice for the rest of the day. Oops.”

“Oops indeed.” Aziraphale smiled. He gestured to Crowley to come inside the bookshop. “I hope you didn't go in as a snake.”

“Nah, I'm a demon, not a beast. I wore a mask, obviously. Lookit, angel,” he said, taking the mask out of his pocket and wearing it. “It has fangs on it,” he beamed at the atrocious thing.

“You do look dashing, dear,” smiled Aziraphale, swallowing down his horror. “You can take it off here, though. I'm sure it's pretty difficult to breath in one of those.”

“We both used the plague doctor masks, this is nothing.”

“Oh, you're right,” Aziraphale almost sighed, but then Crowley took it off, so everything was alright again.

“So,” started Crowley, trying not to look too excited like he was feeling. Aziraphale was glowing and he wanted to just sink into his arms. He seemed a little plumper than the last time they saw each other. Crowley's love grew about ten sizes bigger.

“Whatcha making today?”

“A red velvet cake, did you forget?”

“No, but I couldn't think of a better conversation starter.”

“We were already talking, dear, you didn't need it.” Aziraphale looked at him confused but equally amused. He was so handsome in grey he had almost swooned on the doorstep. “You've been in quarantine for two months and you already have forgotten your social skills?”

“Never had one of those.”

Aziraphale laughed. How he had missed Crowley, he could feel his presence under his skin.

Crowley had expected his angel's kitchen to be a disastrous mess like the most of his bookshop, but he was in for a surprise: everything on the kitchen table had already been measured and every tool had been laid out.

“You prepared, huh?”

“Well, it's your first time and I had to make sure to give you a proper lesson, and a proper lesson calls for a lot of setting up,” Aziraphale said, rather proud of himself. “Here, my dear, start reading the recipe.” He handed Crowley a cookbook and an apron that was surprisingly without any frills and with just a mere hint of tartan on the outline of the pockets.

“There's more sugar here than in the Waitrose I went in.”

“Oh, we can cook something else, if you want,” said Aziraphale in that very special tone he used when he was dead set on something but felt the need to put on a show for Crowley just to hear him give in to his desires, “I thought red velvet because... well, it's red,” he blushed, suddenly aware how silly it sounded, “like your hair. Well, not really like your hair, but -”

“No – no,” Crowley stuttered, red and hot as the sun, “no, we're making this. I was just surprised how much sugar there was, but I bet it's delicious.”

Aziraphale beamed.

“It's one of my favourites. Did you know that it was first introduced in the USA around the same time the devil's food cake was? The other day I googled -”

“Aww, you used the right word and not some expression from King George. I'm proud and a little bit moved.”

“Oh, dear, thank you for the absolutely not patronizing compliment.”

“He detects sarcasm at last!”

“At last. Oh, let me tie your apron for you, you're doing a terrible mess...”

It was true just because Crowley was paying too much attention to his angel and not enough to the apron's tie and he didn't have enough working brain cells to just miracle a knot. Aziraphale was quick to circle around him; his fingers brushed Crowley's back for just a second, but Crowley still felt his fingertips. “All done,” smiled Aziraphale.

“As I was saying, I googled the lovely bakery I used to go to when I was in Boston, around the Forties, where they served the most wonderful devil's food cake,” he purposefully didn't mention how delighted he was every time he ordered it, thinking about Crowley, and sometimes thinking about feeding it to Crowley, and other times thinking about eating it off Crowley's flat stomach, “to see if it was still there – and it wasn't! There's one of those awful supermarkets that's open 24/7. I was rather heartbroken.”

“Oh, poor angel,” Crowley mock-pouted. Had he known before about it he would have blown up the supermarket's construction site and given enough money to the bakery's owners to last for five generations. “Forced to find another shop. How unfair life is for you.”

“Well!”, he said, squaring up his shoulders as he usually did when he got slightly offended, “How did you feel when your bebop went out of style?”

“My 'bepop' doesn't go out of style because it's the most excellent music ever. You should stop calling it bepop, by the way.”

“It's the correct umbrella term, I think. I can't remember everything you listen to,” he lied, because he actually did. There was a time, in the seventeenth century, when they had to spend quite some time - almost a year - in the same city and almost every week Aziraphale 'surprisingly' found concert tickets for the both of them (“Oh, dear boy, I'm glad you're free this evening.”) and, before humans thought about records, he used to memorize his favourite pieces and melodies and pay someone to play them to him when he was in a sour mood. That used to cheer him up rather instantly.

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale was slow but his vocabulary was even slower, so there was nothing to get out of this. “I'm heating up the oven.”

“Don't you dare eat -”

“Angel, you're being a pain in the arse,” sighed Crowley for about the hundredth time in twenty minutes. He knew Aziraphale was fussy, he had witnessed even more fussiness than this, but there was something about him being in the kitchen that was unbearable. Well, almost unbearable.

“There will not be enough batter if you eat it!”

“It's just a teaspoon, Aziraphale. Maybe 6 grams.”

“Yes, but, well...”, sulked Aziraphale without replying any further. Crowley grinned triumphantly and took his teaspoon of red batter. “How is it?”, asked the angel.

“Dreadfully sweet. Will go well with a gallon of coffee, for me.”

“Marvellous. Pop it into the oven, dear. I'm setting the timer.”

The kitchen smelled of sugar and cream cheese, and Crowley was curious about the smell of Aziraphale's fingers. He wanted to kiss each and every one of them. They had touched today way more than the past few months (“Here, let me show you,” Aziraphale had said, briefly touching his wrist when he was whisking the eggs; “Oh, I didn't tie the knot tight enough,” he had said, briefly touching the small of his back; “You whisked the cheese too hard, dear, you have a bit of it on your cheek...”, he had laughed, and Crowley was so drawn to that hand, the lines of his fingertips, that he had almost lost himself, almost leaned into him) but he wanted more. He stifled a mournful sigh.

“We have to wait about 30 minutes. Now, would you like to open your apple cider?”

“Don't you have anything stronger?”

“Yes, but I don't want to get drunk before the cake.”

“We won't, if you don't want to.”

Aziraphale looked at him directly in the eyes.

“... yeah.” He opened up the bottle and took two glasses from the cupboard. He filled them to the brim and gulped his down. “Not half bad.”

Aziraphale sipped his, looking a bit nervous. He was shifting a little, wiggling. He wasn't looking at Crowley.

“I was thinking,” he announced, his voice veined with the tiniest bit of instability, like a toddler who knows how to walk but forgot for a second.

“The cake is perfect, angel, you don't need to check.”

“No, not that... about other things.” He was fidgeting, playing with his fingers around the glass (he didn't wear the pinky ring any more, and Crowley itched with the desire of putting a different one on a different finger). “You know how I tend to be... traditional. A bit stuck in the past.”

“A bit, yeah,” Crowley failed not to snicker, “I'm aware.”

“Yes, maybe a little more than a bit. And you know how much I value my space and my time and that I'm not very prone to share.”

“Yes, angel, like I said, I'm pretty aware of you.”

“Yes, I know you know,” he sighed, feeling a bit impatient. Crowley had such a big mouth, always back-talking and using that clever sarcasm of his. “I'm – I'm just trying to say something, Crowley.”

“I can see that, but I can't help you, angel, 'cause I don't have the faintest idea about the topic.”

“It's...”, he huffed, “this quarantine – it's horrible.”

“Say that to the people who died.”

“I'm not saying it's worse for us! I know we're very lucky and we ought to do something for all those poor humans and – Crowley, you're being insufferable! Just – just let me talk, please?”

Crowley laughed a bit, a breathy thing that came out in little glittering clouds. “Sorry, angel. Please continue.”

Aziraphale huffed again. He drank half of his cider. Crowley's hips were pressed against the table. He wanted to grab them so much. “I'm just saying... I was looking at lake houses, and sea houses, and cottages, and I found about twenty properties I'd like us to look at when this is all over, but I don't know if I'm ready yet,” he said quicker than usual.

Crowley knitted his eyebrows. “But a lake house would damage your books, and why would you want to store them away from you? Oh, you know, I saw an ad for an apartment when I was coming here, I think it's big enough.”

“For what? What are you talking about?”

Crowley was growing more and more confused every second. So was Aziraphale. “You're saying that you want more space for your books?”

“I – no! I'm not talking about that! I'm talking about – about moving...”, Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley, whose heart started to sink.

“Oh,” he replied in a small voice, hoping to hide the thorn of pain that had just punctured his stomach. “You're tired of London?”

“No, of course I'm not, I was just thinking that – we could use a bit of fresh air from time to time. No need to leave London for good.”

“I didn't know books needed fresh air, but you know best.”

“The – Crowley!”, he shrieked, exasperated, “It's not me and the books! I already said I wasn't talking about the books! It's you and me I'm talking about! I want us to move in together! Somewhere!”, he almost yelled, his heart pounding against his throat.

“... oh,” said Crowley, just that, his own heart vibrating all over his body. He heard bells in the distance.

“Yes, oh!”

“And you're looking at lake houses?”

“Yes, they're pretty and I want us to live somewhere pretty,” he grumbled, "I hardly think that's a sin.”

“You live in a badly lit rat's nest and now you worry about a pretty house?”

Yes, Crowley, this is just the right way to react, he thought, you absolutely fucking dumbass.

“You live in a terrarium!”

Crowley hissed, then grinned. The world was turning yellow, bright and shiny; he still was a dumbass, though.

“Yes, well, I think it barely counts as a sin, if I want us to live somewhere pretty. Somewhere you can take all the plants you want.”

Crowley started feeling exhilarated. “When are we going? Do we need to call a moving company?”, he started to shoot, his voice thinner and quicker, as if there was no time. His bloodstream had been replace with pink bubbles. “Maybe we can split your collection between what you want at hand and what you can keep here -”

“Crowley, please, could you stop, just for a second?”

“Yeah, sure, but are you dead-set on doing it the human way or -”

“Crowley!”

Crowley took a step back, looking a little mortified. “Yes, angel, sorry. What were you saying?”

Aziraphale breathed in, like he was looking for the words around him. “It's just... I don't know if I'm ready.”

Oh, his angel, as slow as a goddamn turtle and just as stubborn.

“But I do want to live with you, darling,” it wasn't the first darling in their shared history, but it sure was the most important, the sweetest, strawberry juice sticky on the lips, “I felt so lonely during this quarantine, and I know we hadn't seen each other for decades before, so this is very silly of me -”

“No, it's not, I missed you too!”

Aziraphale smiled, the very concept of warmness shining through his teeth. “This is why I want to come back home to you.”

“You catching up with some sappy books, angel?”, Crowley grinned even if he started feeling tears prickling his eyes. He didn't look at Aziraphale, lest starting to sob so hard he would break a rib.

“Can you just listen to me?”, groaned Aziraphale, growing frustrated, “This is really hard for me and you're being a terror!”

“I'm just getting my revenge.”

They were standing in front of each other, not so as it would be possible to kiss without moving, and that was what was killing Crowley, because kissing Aziraphale would take an actual effort from his part and – what if Aziraphale stepped back? He would be discorporated on the spot and never come back. And what if Aziraphale did not step back but Crowley's mouth tasted bad because of the apple cider? He wasn't sure apple cider could make his breath smell foul, but what if?

Aziraphale looked at him disapprovingly. “I'm being serious, Crowley.”

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry.” What if they kissed and it was beautiful but Crowley suddenly fell somewhere? He was fairly stable on his legs, but wasn't sure he would be with Aziraphale's lips on his own. What if he burped? What if he squealed when Aziraphale touched him? That wasn't very dignified.

“I'll behave. Go on, please.”

“I do want us to live together, I really do, but I don't want to go too fast.” He stopped for a second to allow Crowley to mock him, but he kept his word and didn't say anything. “So I was thinking about... taking it slow. Have a little rehearsal.”

Crowley stopped thinking about kissing him for a moment because he was too confused. “What do you mean, rehearsal?”

“You could...”, Aziraphale started wiggling again, chewing on that little smile Crowley would fight God with bare hands for, “pop in a couple of days a week. Sleep here, make breakfast for me. Take some clothes with you and leaving them here, like that lovely charcoal shirt that suits you so well.”

“Almost like the ethereal being who gave it to me knew me pretty well.”

“And you could, maybe, bring here some of your vinyls? Or a few of your smaller plants. Maybe the least terrorized. Something like this. Living part-time with me, giving me time to adjust. How does it sound for you?”

It sounded like the Heaven pictured by humans, a valley of pure bliss. “'s - 'kay.”

“... 'kay?”

“No, it's -”

“No?”, asked Aziraphale, suddenly alarmed.

Was he being too slow once again? Wasn't Crowley happy about his idea? Maybe he should have suggested to try it in Crowley's apartment instead, but oh, it was so dreadfully empty and too modern and – but Crowley liked it, maybe he ought to be more flexible about it -

“No I didn't mean no in – argh!” Hands on his face, he groaned deeply. “I can't do words right now, angel, it's –”

“No words and no feelings?”, Aziraphale said in a tiny voice. Crowley wanted to slap himself so hard he would see dinosaurs.

“No! Lots of feelings! Feelings the size of a – damn big feeling! Feeling city!”, he rambled on, not caring about making any sense.

“Oh. That's – good, right?”

“Yes, yes, it's good. It's – it's a wonderful idea, angel. I'd love to. It's – we can start today? Like, in an hour? Just give me time to choose what to bring and we can start. Or -” he stopped, realizing an obvious thing. “no, sorry, I'm going too fast, aren't I? We can start the next week, or the next month, or -”

“Tomorrow would be a perfect day, darling,”

Aziraphale smiled, and he looked so radiant and perfect. Crowley felt like ice cream in Dubai in August (he had been in Dubai multiple Augusts and it was always terrible.)

Crowley smiled too, his heart trembling, too full and too anxious and too – he didn't know any more, he just knew that, at that rate, he would need another one. Oh, it would be a splendid idea, two hearts.

One for Aziraphale and one for... Aziraphale, since he didn't really need a heart. He pictured himself being made of just hearts. He made a face because that thought was horrifying.

“... what are you thinking about, dear?”

“Mh? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” How could he walk if he were made of hearts? Maybe he just had to fly. And where were his eyes? And -

“You're thinking about something silly.”

“Am not. But there's something else I was thinking about.”

“What, dear?” Aziraphale took another sip of apple cider, still cool as he wanted it to be.

“Why are we planning on moving in together?”

Aziraphale blinked. He asked, for maybe the thousandth time, why God had been so cruel to make him fall in love with a demon. The dumbest of all Hell. “Because we love each other?”

Crowley's brain short-circuited. “... you never said you loved me.”

“I... thought it was fairly obvious?”

“It was not.”

“... do you love me?”

“I do! I was obvious! You were not!”

“I just asked to move in together! Why else should I do that?”

“A lot of friends move in together for – tax purposes! To split the bills and chores!”

“We don't have to work, Crowley, we don't pay taxes -”

“You do.”

“Yes, but it's not like I actually have to earn the money for it, don't I? And why are you talking about splitting bills?”

“Because that what friends do when they move in together!”

“We're not just friends, Crowley! We -”

“You never said you loved me,” said Crowley, a bit mournful, “and you're not saying it now.”

“Well -”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. He was about to say that also Crowley wasn't saying anything, but the reality was that Crowley's love wasn't subtle like his was, it was blatant, heavy. He had realized he loved Crowley centuries ago, and after the church episode that Crowley loved him back; and then he had started to look back at every little thing Crowley had done for him during their lives, and they amounted to a love that was nuclear, something he couldn't ever measure.

“Oh. You're right.”

Aziraphale, feeling braver than he felt in years, closed their distance. He tentatively reached out for Crowley's face, waited for him to give consent; he saw Crowley's eyes melt.

“Can I kiss you, darling?”

Crowley nodded, (he was tense, suddenly shy, and so, so lovely, like a nightingale) but before Aziraphale could kiss him he said: “Tell me before. Just... please, tell me.”

Aziraphale breathed in. The words, trapped in his throat for so long, started itching. He parted his lips lightly, just because he was still afraid to let out too much, as his love was of a frightful size.

“I love you, Crowley. I love you dearly. I -”

Crowley kissed him before he started crying, but then he cried nevertheless and their first kiss was damp and salty.

He had started to kiss him in a hurry because he believed it was his only chance. After a few seconds, he realized that, maybe, that wasn't true. He pulled back and looked at Aziraphale. His cheeks pink and begging to be pinched, his eyes shining. Crowley waited for a second too long, because Aziraphale kissed him again a little impatiently, but his kiss was different from Crowley's; it wasn't riddled with hurry, because Aziraphale was now sure he had all the time in the world (the truth was, Crowley wouldn't be sure even after sex, but he didn't want to think about it).

So Aziraphale took his time to taste him, slowly nipping at his lips, mixing up their apple cider breaths. Love was a beating, singing thing he couldn't hold, but he was holding Crowley, and that was the same thing.

“You're so emotional, darling,” mocked Aziraphale who also started crying, because he obviously did.

Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale's.

“Oh, yeah, and you're the stoic one, the same one who wore a black band on his arm when Sherlock Holmes died.”

“Don't sell me short. I also wrote a bunch of letters to Sir Doyle. And it worked, remember?”

“Yeah, it did.”

With their arms locked around each other's backs, they giggled and kissed again.

“I love you too, by the way,” said Crowley after the eighth or eightieth kiss. “And I'm doing the chores, period. I don't trust you with a duster.”

“They're all yours, darling.”

They forgot all about the cake, which burned until there was nothing left to save.


End file.
